


lending a hand

by partialconstellations



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Hand Jobs, M/M, Minor Jeyne Poole/Jon Snow, Minor Jojen Reed/Bran Stark, Minor Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark, Minor Yara Greyjoy/Margaery Tyrell, No beta we die like illiterates, Robb Stark is a Gift, Robb is very horny and anxious, Tormund is lending a hand, a surprising amount of cursing, this is very silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:08:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21697477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/partialconstellations/pseuds/partialconstellations
Summary: Robb was initially confused why Sansa decided to invite Tormund to her wedding in the first place, but it’s not like he’s going to complain when the man in question currently has his hand shoved down Robb’s dress pants and is busy sucking a hickey into a spot of his neck where he is definitely not going to be able to hide it.
Relationships: Tormund Giantsbane/Robb Stark
Comments: 12
Kudos: 48





	lending a hand

**Author's Note:**

> this is very silly and I blame the Theonsa Discord for encouraging this dumb ship approximately five hours ago.

Tormund fucking Giantsbane isn’t really the person Robb would consider “his type,” whatever the hells that meant, but then, drunken wedding hook-ups aren’t really his style either. Especially if the people getting married are his little sister and his best friend.

His friend Jeyne ditched him at the last second to go on a date with some girl she met at work, of all places—really, who meets people in a _hospital_?—and, according to Tormund, _his_ plus one just failed to show up without any excuse. Robb was initially confused why Sansa decided to invite Tormund to her wedding in the first place, but it’s not like he’s going to complain when the man in question currently has his hand shoved down Robb’s dress pants and is busy sucking a hickey into a spot of his neck where he is definitely not going to be able to hide it.

“We’ll have to hurry up, I’ve got to do my speech soon,” Robb says between moans.

“True art can’t be rushed, Stark,” but he does start taking off his shirt and suit jacket, and, fuck, if he knew _that_ had been hidden under those ugly metal band shirts and leather coat for all this time, he might have found some excuse to hang out with Jon and Tormund more. Shame they don’t really have anything in common.

“Art,” Robb repeats, eyes raking over Tormund’s naked chest unashamedly. If he had more time, he’d love to trace the pattern of the weirwood roots tattooed across his chest and wrapping around his ribcage with his tongue—no, his fingers, definitely his fingers. There’s some kind of animal on his shoulder, too. “Is that what you call it?” he asks, forcing himself to look up into Tormund’s eyes.

“Yeah,” Tormund chuckles, “And _you_ don’t seem to mind the view.”

“I just—” Robb desperately tries to explain himself, _this_ , but the brain in his head has apparently ceased to function.

“Shut up,” Tormund interrupts, and presses his mouth to Robb’s own, in a decidedly ungentlemanly manner, and then he bites his lower lip and just begins _licking_ into his mouth.

Robb doesn’t know if he should feel offended that Tormund apparently thinks he’s this easy or that he is, in, fact, this easy.

“Do you have a condom?” Tormund asks, as his hand finds its way back into his trousers that have come undone at some point, and definitely not at Robb’s hand.

“No. I didn’t think I’d need any,” Robb replies, a little helpless at the fact how fast this is moving, completely forgetting that it was him in the first place who said they’d have to go quickly.

“Why in all hells not? You’re the best man _and_ you’re the bride’s older brother. You’re single _and_ you’re really fucking pretty. Why would you think you’re _not_ going to pull?” Tormund actually seems offended on his behalf.

“Do I look like someone who has a plan?” Maybe he sounds a little hysterical. This entire situation is beyond absurd.

“Why are all of you so fucking high-strung? Sansa is the only normal person in your entire family, I swear to the gods.” Tormund nips at his lip again, pulling it between his teeth, before releasing it again. Robb chases the contact without even realising it. “Hope you at least brought tissues. Because this _will_ be messy.” And with that, Tormund wraps his hand around his cock, and another around his neck, thumb lightly brushing against his pulse. Robb practically melts into his touch with a whimper.

“Oh?” Tormund says, and repeats the brushing motion against his neck, keeping the hand around Robb’s cock still. The whimper escapes his throat against his will. “Oh, you’re _fun_ , Stark,” Tormund comments and without further ado, starts moving the hand around his cock, in fluid motions.

Robb feels like he should be embarrassed by how quickly he comes, but he chalks it down to the ridiculousness of the situation. It’s not like being shoved against a door by a bear of a man has been something he’s been fantasising about or anything. No, definitely not.

“Robb, you in there?” Jon yells and immediately starts banging on the other side of the door. Robb can feel the impact at his back.

“Yeah, calm down. I’m here,” Robb yells back, still a little out of breath. Tormund has the gall to smirk at him as he cleans his hand with a wad of tissues.

The banging against the door stops and Jon’s voice comes muffled from the other side, “Robb, I swear to all the gods, if you’re chickening out after I’ve practiced with you for two weeks, I will strangle you.”

“Fuck,” Robb says, eloquently. “I’ve got to do a speech.” He looks up at Tormund a little helplessly. “It’s in my trousers.” Robb isn’t even sure when he lost them. During a fucking hand job.

“Well, I don’t have your trousers,” Tormund replies, but he does help by sorting through their clothes together. Robb clutches his cue cards to his chest as he checks that he is, in fact, fully dressed and in his own clothes before he takes a breath and opens the door to face the music.

It’s far worse than he expects.

Jeyne – Jon’s Jeyne, the maid of honour, not Robb’s friend Jeyne who ditched him – is next to Jon with her arms crossed, looking at him with raised eyebrows. “You’ve got something on your neck.”

“Traditionally,” Gendry adds helpfully, “people do the random hooking up after the speeches are done and everyone is just busy getting drunk.”

“I support your slutty endeavours,” Yara smirks at him, while behind her, Margaery is giving him a thumbs up through a corridor mirror that she’s reapplying her lipstick in.

“Where the fuck did you all even come from?” Robb asks, because seriously, don’t they have other places to be?

“Just be happy Sansa isn’t here to see your walk of shame, too,” Bran adds. “Arya is distracting her.”

“She’s going to be _so_ pissed she missed this,” Gendry says, horror dawning on his face.

“Can all of you just … shut up. I’ve got a speech to do, I’m a little stressed.”

“It’s not _our_ fault the best man slash brother of the bride vanished into a coat closet,” Yara adds, not even trying to hide the smirk growing wider across her face. She’s got a shade of lipstick in the corner of her mouth that definitely isn’t hers. Robb rounds on Margaery with an accusing look.

“I’m still taking bets on who’s hiding in there,” Jojen, who’s leaning against the opposite wall next to Bran, says, producing his phone with a flourish.

“Oooh.” Margaery, her lipstick apparently meeting her high standards again, bustles over to Jojen. “Who have you got down already?”

“Fuck all of you,” Robb says, and opens the door with a little more force than is strictly necessary to reveal Tormund, who has settled in on the floor, obviously ready to wait them out.

He grins up at Robb, a little startled, but not unhappy. “Well,” he laughs. “You’re full of surprises today, Stark.”

“So. _Theon_ wins,” Bran comments drily, making a show of pulling Jojen’s hand down and checking his phone. “That’s a little disappointing, considering he yelled it after me. Quote: _I don’t care if he’s busy fucking Tormund fucking Giantsbane, I’m having a crisis_.”

The word “crisis” momentarily distracts Robb from his siblings and their partners being impossible. “Wait, what? They’re already married, and none of his uncles have gotten drunk yet, how can he have a crisis _now_?”

“Something about lemon cake,” Jojen shrugs. “I offered him a smoke to calm him down, but then he threw me out.”

“It really is the end times,” Yara laments, arm around Margaery’s shoulders, gesticulating wildly. “He’s found a girl—a very pretty girl that is absolutely wasted on him—and now he won’t even smoke up.” Her eyes narrow on Jojen. “Hey, kid, how old are you anyway?”

“Just so we’re clear,” Tormund says, pushing past Jon and Jeyne, and then he curls his fingers around the back of Robb’s neck, thumb brushing against his pulse again. Robb tries his best to stay upright. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jon turn his back on them very abruptly. Robb can’t help the little moan that escapes him as Tormund leans down to whisper into his ear. “I like a man who reciprocates.”

**Author's Note:**

> Robb: Watch me climb that bear


End file.
